It would be lonely there, now that Anne had married that young Britisher, Jon Forsyte, and gone away north, to Southern Pines. And he thought of his sister, thus lost to him, dark, pale, vivid, ‘full of sand.’ Yes! this room made him homesick, with its perfection, such as he had never beheld, where the only object out of keeping was that dog, lying on its side now, and so thick through that all its little legs were in the air. Softly he said:

“It’s the prettiest room I ever was in.”

“What a perfectly charming thing to overhear!”

A young woman, with crinkly chestnut hair above a creamy face, with smiling lips, a short straight nose, and very white dark-lashed eyelids active over dark hazel eyes, stood near the door. She came towards him, and held out her hand.

Francis Wilmot bowed over it, and said, gravely:

“Mrs. Michael Mont?”

“So Jon’s married your sister. Is she pretty?”

“She is.”

“Very?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“I hope baby has been entertaining you.”

“He’s just great.”

“He is, rather. I hear Dandie bit you?”

“I reckon he didn’t break the cuticle.”

“Haven’t you looked? But he’s quite healthy. Sit down, and tell me all about your sister and Jon. Is it a marriage of true minds?”

Francis Wilmot sat down.

“It certainly is. Young Jon is a pretty white man, and Anne—”

He heard a sigh.

“I’m very glad. He says in his letter that he’s awfully happy. You must come and stay here. You can be as free as you like. Look on us as an hotel.”

The young man’s dark eyes smiled.

“That’s too good of you! I’ve never been on this side before. They got through the war too soon.”

Fleur took the baby out of its nest.

“THIS creature doesn’t bite. Look—two teeth, but they don’t antagonise—isn’t that how you put it?”

“What is its name?”

“Kit—for Christopher. We agreed about its name, luckily. Michael—my husband—will be in directly. He’s in Parliament, you know. They’re not sitting till Monday—Ireland, of course. We only came back for it from Italy yesterday. Italy’s so wonderful—you must see it.”